


Pyrrhic Victories

by i_still_believve



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm realizing I don't know how to tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Supernatural Elements, Takes awhile to get fluffy but we're getting there, Touch-Starved, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:42:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_still_believve/pseuds/i_still_believve
Summary: In this world, there are demons— also known as specters, that run amok. Humans, ever evolving, have 12 families that were gifted with powers to defeat said specters. They became known as the "Chosen". Time passed, and as it did, both the specters and humans kept progressing. When each child that presents their families’ power comes of the age of 14, they are sent to a boarding school called Praeditus Academy, specialized in training them to combat the specters. They are taken out on exorcisms when they are determined ready, and are assistants to their mentors.Syaoran Xie is one such student, a freshman with a violent past. He's got a lot to overcome if he's going to become one of the Chosen, but Xie's are nothing if not determined. It's too bad that the year he joins, the specters seem to be getting more powerful, and a lot more organized. It turns out, there might be a mastermind after all.
Kudos: 1





	Pyrrhic Victories

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this is my first time really publishing something on here, so I hope you all enjoy it! This isn't beta read, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out. Also, comments and kudos are really appreciated! (no seriously, it makes my motivation go up by like, 1,000).
> 
> Warning: This chapter features graphic depictions of abuse, if you'd like to skip, skip the paragraph in between these ***

**— Thursday, August 14th, 2020 —**

Cleaning blood was something Syaoran was used to; something that he’d been doing at least once a week for as long as he could remember. It always started out the same: his father would slap him around a bit if he didn’t feel like getting more creative, and if blood was drawn (more often than not, it was), then afterward Syaoran was tossed a bucket of water and an already bloodstained rag to clean up his mess. Obviously, Syaoran and his father both knew that lukewarm water wasn’t enough to get the blood off the floor, especially if it happened to be carpeted. Therefore, Syaoran typically had to resort to less… savory means of getting the blood out. Less savory by his father’s standards anyway.

His gift— if one could call it that— was passed down from his mother most likely. He didn’t know for sure, considering the fact that she’d died long before he would’ve ever known about something like that, but Syaoran was certain that it wasn’t something he’d gotten from his father’s side of the family. Surely his father would have reacted differently if that were the case. Carefully, Syaoran glanced behind him, at his father who was snoring away on the couch, his feet resting in front of him on the coffee table. He always made sure to “watch” Syaoran whenever he had to clean, to make sure he was doing it properly, and not using any of his freakishness to take the easy way out.

Luckily, he knew his father was a rather deep sleeper, and that then was as good a time as any to get the blood out the living room carpet before it became a permanent stain. He wasn’t even sure where the blood had come from, not really anyway. It might have been from his bleeding (but not broken) nose, his split lip, or possibly even the cut on the back of his head; which was still throbbing from it connecting with the coffee table after he’d fallen, courtesy of his dear father.

He sighed softly before extending his hand towards the small puddle of blood, careful to keep his movements slow and cautious. If his father woke up, it’d be over for him. After a few moments of nothing that stemmed from his own hesitation, the blood began to condense itself into a small ball, lifting up from the carpet and dropping into the red-tinted water with a small splash. There was no stain left on the white carpet, and Syaoran sighed with relief.

He knew his “powers” were freaky, but sometimes, they made his life a lot easier. Oftentimes they were the only thing that kept the carpet— and sometimes other fabrics— from staining. Syaoran looked over at the still bloody coffee table, which would be much easier to clean but still tedious nonetheless. However, cleaning the living room for the nth time that week would always be much better than whatever else his father had planned for him. With renewed vigor, Syaoran attacked the coffee table, smearing the blood a bit before the cloth began to properly absorb it. Sweat began to form on his brow, but he didn’t bother to wipe it as he cleaned the table to his father’s standards, making sure to carefully avoid the sleeping man’s feet.

It was only after Syaoran had finished cleaning that things went wrong. His father woke up— as silently as he always did— and took in the scene around him, most likely determining whether or not Syaoran’s cleaning was up to his standards. Said standards would often inexplicably rise whenever his father was in a sour mood, but today, he seemed to pick up on something else. “I see you’ve used your little mutation again,” his father commented with a raised eyebrow, his voice so calm he may as well have been discussing the weather.

Syaoran swallowed, subtly glancing back and forth from his father to where the bloodstain _should_ have been. He knew that his father was no idiot and that he would’ve come to the conclusion that he’d used his powers eventually. There was no lingering scent of chemicals in the air, and even those wouldn’t have gotten it up so perfectly, assuming he’d managed to steal them in the first place. Still, being caught after having already done it was better than just leaving it to stain, or worse, being caught in the act.

“I just— I wanted to get the blood up,” he challenged, looking in the vague direction of his father, not having yet mustered the courage to look the man directly in the eyes, even after all these years. His father sneered, and Syaoran automatically knew that his father was just looking for a reason to punish him. Yeah sure, he wasn’t supposed to ever use his powers, and that doing so always warranted a punishment in his father’s eyes, but when he saw the sadistic gleam flash across the man’s face, Syaoran still couldn’t help but swallow just a little harder.

“Is it, or is it not a rule that you are never, _ever_ to use that freakishness in this house.” It didn’t sound like a question, and Syaoran looked down at the rag clenched between his fists.

“It is,” he mumbled out, knowing his father could hear him despite his low voice.

“Then did you, or did you not, disobey me?” His father’s voice was chilly, and he spoke slowly, as though he were speaking to a small child instead of a fourteen-year-old. Nevertheless, Syaoran resisted the urge to shiver and shrink in on himself.

“I did,” he mumbled through clenched teeth, knowing exactly where the conversation was going, but not liking it all the same.

“Then stand.” Almost as soon as he did, his father placed a tight grip on the back of his neck, all but shoving him towards his room. Syaoran’s feet felt like lead, and he found it hard to place one foot in front of the other as he was led to what may as well have been his very own guillotine. He avoided looking towards the center of the room, knowing that if he did he would panic. No, for this, he’d need to stay calm for as long as possible. It was one of the only ways to get through it in one piece.

*******

“Since you’ve deemed yourself above the rules I’ve set in place, the only thing I can do is properly punish you to discourage you from continuing to do so in the future,” his father said, as though he were simply getting ready to ground him. He faced Syaoran towards the entrance of his room near the center, and although he couldn’t see him, Syaoran knew exactly what his father was preparing to do. “Apologizing now will not get you out of it and will, in fact, only make things worse,” he continued, and Syaoran could hear the noose being loosened to fit around his head. And no, he didn’t mean it metaphorically.

His breathing picked up ever so slightly, and he clenched his hands at his sides, trying to keep from moving and making things worse. Still, Syaoran found his hand reaching up to grasp the rope before it could tighten around his neck in a feeble attempt to stop his father. It did make the man pause, and Syaoran could’ve sworn the room heated several degrees as he felt his father’s glare on the back of his head.

“You have three seconds to let go.” His father’s voice was callous, causing Syaoran’s breath to hitch in the back of his throat. The threat didn’t need to be spoken, not when Syaoran already had a noose around his neck. It probably took a little over five seconds for Syaoran to get his trembling fingers to finally release the death grip on the rope, and as soon as he did, he wished he hadn’t.

Suddenly, his father yanked the rope— hard— and Syaoran found himself gasping for breath as it was forced out from him. His hands immediately flew up to the rope once more, looking for any slack, despite knowing that it was useless. He couldn’t breathe, and the ringing in his ears became a loud white noise that threatened to take his hearing altogether. He was forced onto the tips of his toes to get even the smallest of breaths, ones that would keep him conscious, but only just. He gurgled something unintelligible— probably an apology, though not even he knew for sure. His father just chuckled, as if he’d told a joke, before securing the end of the rope to the metal ring on the floor, which only made it harder for him to stay on his tiptoes for the slight reprieve.

His father circled around to the front of him, a smirk on his face as though he were amused. His hands were clasped lightly behind his back, making a show of how much he planned on helping Syaoran (read: not at all). Syaoran’s breath wheezed and whistled, and his nails left deep scratches on his neck as he struggled futilely with the rope digging into his skin. His eyes begged for forgiveness, whilst he internally seethed at the unfairness of it all.

“This is for your own good, you know. How else are you going to become an upstanding citizen? You can’t use your freakishness, and the sooner you realize this, the better,” his father said, somehow looking like he pitied Syaoran without the smirk ever leaving his face. He then reached his arm out and placed a deceptively gentle hand on Syaoran’s shoulder, before pushing down with ease, too much ease, and forcing Syaoran’s feet flat on the ground.

The rope then restrained his breathing completely, and when he tried to pry his father’s hand off him, the man simply reinforced his hold with his other hand. Tears welled in his eyes, and despite doing his best to will them away, they still rolled down his cheeks in big, fat drops that only made his father’s smirk widen into a smile. “Shh, don’t fight.” The words were soft, gentle, and luring; to the point where Syaoran almost wanted to listen. He continued struggling, and his father didn’t relieve the pressure from his shoulders until his eyes began rolling to the back of his head and his hands went limp.

Immediately, Syaoran found himself back on his tiptoes and repeating the process all over again, coming closer and closer to losing consciousness each time. It seemed as though hours had passed, but Syaoran knew that couldn’t be possible because his legs would have already given out. As it was, his calves already burned something fierce from the amount of time he was spending on his tiptoes. He almost wished his father would just let him pass out already.

“I can’t anymore, just let me down already.” Syaoran’s voice was hoarse and cracked several times, causing him to wince at his own patheticness. His father simply clicked his tongue, looking at Syaoran as though he were disappointed.

“Such poor manners. Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?”

“Please— please let me down,” Syaoran tried again, and his father smiled, cupping Syaoran’s cheek, causing him to cringe in an attempt to keep from pulling away. Suddenly, his father was looking deep into his eyes, although he found himself not caring, as his father’s lack of concentration allowed him back onto his tiptoes. There was a faraway look in the man’s eyes, signaling that he wasn’t all there.

“You know… You look just like your mother. Especially like this.” Syaoran’s heart skipped a beat at those words, and before his father could move any more, Syaoran went against his very first rule when determining his survival: using his powers in front of his father. Gathering a bit of blood from the scratches on his neck, Syaoran sharpened said blood into a short blade of sorts, using it to cut himself down from the rope. At the same time, he pushed his father away from him, his legs practically giving out as he landed on them, but not before his father was sent to the ground with a hard thud. The man seemed startled and dazed, as though he’d just been snapped back to the present. Before his gaze could land on Syaoran, he quickly ran from his room, tearing the noose from around his neck and throwing it away from him in the process.

Running to the kitchen was hard with socked feet, and Syaoran found himself almost tripping several times on the journey there. One of the kitchen chairs was overturned once he’d used it as leverage, but all that mattered was that he finally had the house phone in his hand. He was quick to dial 9-1-1, but before he could hit ‘call’, he was slammed to the ground, and the phone clattered to the tiled floor and out of his reach.

He gasped as the wind was knocked out of him and he was pinned to the ground, primarily by his throat. Above him kneeled his father, a crazed look in his eye that Syaoran had only seen a few times, one resulting in the death of his mother. “Let me go!” He practically screamed, trying to force his father’s hands away from him. “Please! Let me go! Get off me!” He scratched, pulled, clawed, kicked, punched, and even tried biting when his father was close enough, but nothing loosened the grip. Instead, It seemed to only make it tighter, and once again, Syaoran found himself unable to breathe. “No—” he thought briefly about using his powers, but when he tried, nothing happened. It only caused him to panic more, which resulted in his father squeezing tighter, creating a seemingly never-ending loop of pain and frustration. “Father— father please,” he rasped, unable to voice more. He feebly pulled at the man’s fingers around his throat, but found that he was quickly losing strength.

His breath stuttered weakly, before stopping altogether.

*******

**— ??? —**

It was sometime later that Syaoran woke up, although he had no idea how long it’d been. His throat felt as though he’d been drinking acid, raw and scratchy in a way that promised he wouldn’t be talking for at least a week. His calves still burned from overuse, and his palms seemed to be covered in mild rope burns. As Syaoran cataloged all of his injuries, he noted that he was also sprawled on the floor right underneath the broken noose, his father likely having dragged him after Syaoran passed out. His head twinged in pain; a reminder of the cut on the back of his head after his tussle with the coffee table. Mustering strength he didn’t actually have, Syaoran slowly stood, trying to ignore his spasming muscles and the way his world tilted for several moments.

Walking to his door proved almost useless, as it was locked, meaning he was trapped until his father decided to let him out. He could only hope his father would at least slip some food through the door during the duration of his lock-in. He sighed, the action hurting his injured throat and causing him to wince from the sharp pain. He had been aiming to get a few mouthfuls of water from the sink without his father noticing, but that plan had been trashed by the stupid lock his father deemed necessary after he’d slipped from his room a few too many times.

Looking at the mirror attached to the back of his door, Syaoran almost wished he hadn’t. There was a ring of dark purple— almost black— bruises circling the entirety of his neck. It looked brutal, and Syaoran didn’t even pretend to want to poke at it. Around the edges of the bruises were slightly bloody scratches from where he’d been trying to remove the rope, without any success. They didn’t look too deep, and with any luck, they’d heal in about a week. His normally pale ivory skin looked sickly white, making the dark freckles that covered his face stand out even more. His ginger, shoulder-length hair was messy, strands of hair splayed across his forehead and cheeks because of sweat. His curls were erratic and his hair frizzier than it normally was, courtesy of having laid on it for the past several hours (if it had been that long).

When Syaoran looked into his eyes, he almost gasped in surprise. One of the blood vessels in his left eye must have popped, because instead of the normally white sclera that surrounded his forest green eyes, there was a blood-red. He was surprised that it didn’t hurt at all, he hadn’t even noticed it until he saw it in the mirror. He made a note to look it up later when he was able to get out of the house and to a library. He hoped that the injury wouldn’t affect his vision, but there was nothing he could do about it whilst locked in his room. He could redirect the blood from his eye back into his skin, but he generally only did that for bruises on his limbs and some minor head wounds if needed, as most everything else was too sensitive for him to be fooling around with. The last thing he needed was to inadvertently make things worse.

 **< <Little one, you look awful...>>** Syaoran startled at the voice in his head, his lips splitting into a rather bitter smile as he gazed back at his reflection.

 _< <Yes, I think it’s one of the side effects of being beaten>>_ he inwardly responds before he could think, despite knowing what people said about speaking to the voices in one’s head. _< <Khutulun, it’s been a while.>>_ The voice— Khutulun as his younger self had so aptly named it— began speaking to him about a year after his mom died. He was pretty sure that she came to him as a way to cope with his father, but he was too scared to look into it properly, not wanting to know the results if it was something awful.

Khutulun simply chuckled, and despite her not having a tangible body, Syaoran could imagine her shrugging. **< <I needed to rest for a bit,>** _ **> **_she answered vaguely, and Syaoran rolled his eyes playfully, but accepted the answer nonetheless. They chatted for a while more, mainly about his eye and if his vision would be okay (but of course she wouldn’t know since he didn’t), before Syaoran that he needed to patch his injuries up sooner rather than later.

After glancing over the rest of his injuries and cleaning up the dried blood with a dirty sweatshirt (and admittedly clotting some injuries so that they would stop bleeding), Syaoran walked back over to his bed. Well really, it was just a mattress on the floor after the frame had broken and his father ordered him to get rid of it. His entire body was sore and hurting, and Syaoran wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep for the rest of the week. He succeeded in the first, curling up underneath the thin sheets with his back to the wall and making sure he was still able to see the door, which was positioned at his feet.

However, sleep eluded him, and no matter how much he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, Syaoran constantly found himself teetering on the edge of consciousness, frustratingly close but not able to fall. Every time it felt like he’d finally be pulled under, he was startled awake by a noise coming from outside his room. Syaoran sighed, knowing that it would be a long week.

**— Friday, August 29th, 2020 —**

It had indeed been a long week, a long two weeks, in fact. The broken blood vessel in his eye (a subconjunctival hemorrhage was what the research results had come up with) ended up not being life-threatening and had healed up nicely along with the rest of his bruises. They had faded from the dark, gruesome purple into a light, sickly yellow— only a few of them still being visible at all. The cut on his head hadn’t needed stitches, although that was really more of a result of Syaoran manipulating his own blood in order to keep his head from bleeding once more. So far there had been no lasting damage though, so he didn’t think it was too serious.

*******

Currently, Syaoran found himself once again being punished, although this time he had no idea as to why. He thought it might have been because he hadn’t done the dishes last night, but he’d been locked in his room the entire time, so that wasn’t actually his fault. _‘Then again, I doubt such things matter to him of all people.’_ Syaoran thought, before a whimper was forced from his lips as the blow of the cane landed on the bottom of his feet once more. His voice had finally come back to him after a long week and a half, and although he hadn’t needed it much (his father wasn’t the fondest of riveting conversations with a son he hated, after all), he felt considerably less vulnerable now that it was back.

“I’m sorry father, please forgive me.” Forced to utter the words after every fall of the cane, Syaoran found that it was one of the more humiliating things he’d been made to do in quite a while. He’d already been hit six times with the cane, his skin having ripped open by the third blow. He had been placed on his knees facing the wall of the living room, his feet exposed to his father and not allowing him to see the blows. He tensed uncontrollably as he waited for the next blow to fall, trying not to focus on both the painful and ticklish feeling of blood dripping down the soles of his feet. When he was met with the seventh blow, he hissed, leaning forward and sagging into the wall slightly, allowing his heated forehead to meet with the cool wall. “I’m— I’m sorry father, please forgive me,” he murmured through clenched teeth.

His entire body suddenly jerked forward and he yelped in pain as the cane laid a stripe across his back. Despite his back being covered by his sweatshirt, Syaoran found that it didn’t do much in the way of protection, as it hurt almost as much as hitting his bare skin did. “Sit up straight,” his father commanded, voice as aloof as it usually was. Syaoran scrambled to comply, almost putting pressure on his feet before remembering the cuts that covered them.

He held his breath for the next three blows, only unclenching his mouth to utter the same words over and over. He knew that if he opened his mouth for anything else, he’d likely scream from the pain. As it was, it already took everything for him to sit up straight and not try to run away or use his powers, as things would only get worse should he decide to do either. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes, and he swallowed back a sob, not wanting his father to get the satisfaction of knowing he made him cry. If a stray tear or two escaped when he clenched his eyes closed, well, as long as his father didn’t know he could pretend it hadn’t happened.

*******

Syaoran had long since lost count of the caning, as he focused all of his energy on not losing his composure. He hardly realized when his father stopped, and the only thing that truly pulled him out of his stupor was the doorbell ringing. Curious, he turned his head towards the front door, as though that would allow him to see who was visiting the house at such an early hour. “Go clean yourself up,” his father ordered, and Syaoran briefly wondered how he was supposed to walk. Knowing that didn’t matter to the man, Syaoran bit his lip before pushing himself up to his feet, and only just barely managing to swallow a whimper before it fell past his lips. His feet felt like fire, pulsing rhythmically to the beat of his heart and only enhancing the pain.

He slowly began making his way to the bathroom, only stopping when his father spoke again. “Take that cursed blood with you.” Considering that he didn’t have enough time to clean with someone knocking at their door, Syaoran took it as permission (as much as he’d ever get anyway) to use his power. Looking to the floor, Syaoran flicked his hand, and the small puddle of blood converged into a ball that floated over to the palm of his hand. As he walked, he added the blood from his footsteps into the small sphere, before depositing it into the bathroom sink and turning on the faucet. Closing and locking the door behind him, Syaoran pulled himself up onto the counter of the sink, sticking his feet underneath the cool running water, as he knew using the tub wasn’t an option. It would make too much noise, and whoever was at the door would question it most likely.

Washing his feet free of blood was an easy task, one he’d had to do more than he cared to admit. After drying his feet, he looked carefully at the injuries, frowning at what he saw. To anyone who didn’t know, it looked as though he’d been walking through glass. Luckily, it didn’t look like any of them would need stitches, but he put bandaids on the deepest ones just in case.

Whoever had been at the door had been let into the apartment, as Syaoran could hear her speaking through the thin walls. He didn’t recognize her by voice alone, meaning she probably didn’t come around a lot. He’d recognize any of his father’s friends, and any family had long since stopped visiting. Getting off the sink was a slow and arduous task, resulting in him yelping in pain when his feet hit the ground. There was a brief pause in the conversation beyond the door, making him wonder if he’d been heard, but it picked back up before he was sure.

Keeping careful to walk gingerly on the heels of his feet, where the least amount of injuries were, Syaoran quietly made his way back into his room, ensuring that the guest wouldn’t hear him. He pulled on his thickest pair of black socks, which would hopefully cushion his feet from the hard, wooden floor, as well as hide any blood.

Without the little adrenaline he’d had from the beating, the stinging in his feet began taking up more and more of his attention, until he had to get off his feet by sitting on his bed, taking deep breaths to keep from swearing. He stared blankly at the wall in front of him, focusing on a chip in the paint until his entire body went numb. It was almost like he was floating, like he’d left his body with only a thin string keeping him from flying away. The pain in his feet faded, still there, but only in the back of his mind— no longer important nor worthy of his attention. Without realizing he was doing it, his body began picking at the hem of his frayed, oversized sweatshirt, the strings at the bottom coming undone the longer he picked at it. Syaoran heard a knocking at his door, but it sounded muffled, as though it were underwater instead of only a few feet away from him. Without waiting for an answer, his father opened the door, looking annoyed for some reason or another. Perhaps it was because he’d been interrupted in the middle of punishing Syaoran, but he found that he just didn’t… care.

“Get out here, someone’s here to see you.” Someone here? To see him? Syaoran’s body stood dazedly, wobbling a bit before walking out the door and passing his father, who quickly grabbed him by his shoulder before he entered the hallway. “Wipe that stupid look off your face,” his father said, sharply slapping him in the back of his head. With a shuddering gasp, Syaoran found himself back in his body, the pain in his feet more radiant than ever and his heart pulsing loudly in his ears. Without being given time to recover, Syaoran was shoved forward.

He did his best to walk normally and ignore the pain in his feet, as it wouldn’t do for his guest to get suspicious. When he entered the living room, he saw her. She was young— maybe in her mid to early twenties, and was of Chinese descent. She was quite pretty, with rather fair skin, black, mid-back length hair, and matching dark eyes. Her gaze was intense, and her eyes sharp, like steel. She also looked vaguely familiar, and Syaoran knew that he’d seen her before, he just didn’t know where. She brightened when she saw him, and when he sat down gingerly on the loveseat across from her it looked like she wanted to get up and hug him. Luckily though, she didn’t.

“Syaoran! It’s so good to see you again. You probably don’t remember me, since we were both pretty young last time we were together,” she began with a smile on her face, and Syaoran nodded his head in agreement. He had no idea who she was. “Anyways, I’m your cousin Kara. On your mom’s side in case you couldn’t tell.” Inwardly, Syaoran perked up at the fact that he was speaking to one of his mom’s relatives, and a small smile graced his features before he was able to squash down the instinct. “From what I understand, you’re fourteen, right?” She asked, and he nodded his head once more, wondering where she was getting at. What did his age have to do with anything? It wasn’t some important milestone, after all. “Then how come you aren’t heading to P.A?” Syaoran tilted his head, blinking owlishly at her. Was he supposed to know what that was?

“P.A?”

“Well, the whole thing is Praeditus Academy for the Chosen, but for obvious reasons, everyone calls it P.A, or Praeditus. Don’t you know? Orientation is today.” Suddenly, she looked over towards his father, who had been fiddling with something in the kitchen the entire time. Syaoran knew that it was just a pretense to listen in on the conversation though. “Haven’t you told him about P.A?” Kara asked, her eyebrows pinched together as she frowned. His father simply snorted, not looking up from whatever it was that he was doing.

“I figured with his mother dead, he wouldn’t be going to that school anymore.” Syaoran winced at the bluntness of his father’s words, whilst Kara’s frown only deepened.

“All of the Chosen have to attend the Academy once they turn fourteen,” she said, and Syaoran wondered just what anything about this Academy had to do with him. He hated being this uninformed and resolved to study as much of the subject as he could. Kara seemed to understand the look of confusion on his face, and she smiled sympathetically. “I’m gonna take a guess and say that you don’t know anything about what I’m talking about, do you?” She asked, and although he loathed to do it, Syaoran nodded his head. “Right well, where to start?” She idly tapped a slim finger to her chin. “Well, you know about the Specters, don’t you?”

“Of course.” He’d have to have lived under a rock not to know. Anyone that had been outside for more than five minutes, or had seen a news report knew what a Specter was. They were these creatures that had “popped up” in America around the 1650s. Before then, there were no written records of them anywhere, although some thought that the popular tales of monsters such as the Kraken and the Hydra could have actually been Specters. Syaoran didn’t know whether he thought they were actually true or not, but he thought the tales were interesting nonetheless. Then again, anything was better than staring at the blank walls of his room, and Syaoran had always been a sucker for mythology, regardless of whether they were based on Specters.

Specters were monsters that came in all different shapes and sizes, and the only thing that they had in common was that they liked to kill. Humans were their primary targets, and if one attacked you… well… others would be lucky to find a body on most occasions. Specters liked to attack at night, especially those that traveled alone or in small groups. It was why most news reporters urged people to travel in large groups, or better yet, not to travel at night at all.

Before the early 1700s, humans had no way of defending themselves against Specters, as no weapon worked against them. They regenerated no matter what weapon humans threw at them. Then, in 1705, legend had it that something— the stories could never decide on whether or not it was a demon or an angel— came down from the sky and gifted twelve humans with the ability to fight off the Specters. They became known as the Eximius, or the Chosen. Syaoran knew that the Chosen were still around and fighting the Specters, but most of the library books he had access to were old and outdated, the last one about the Chosen and Specters having been written almost thirty years ago. He sighed, wondering just how much information he’d have to catch up on. Now that he knew he was outdated, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it until he learned everything new that there was to learn about the subject.

“That makes this easier then. Like I said to your father earlier—“ she sent a small glare his father’s way, who was now watching the conversation with rapt attention. Syaoran swallowed nervously, knowing that anything that had his father’s attention would end up ruined. He couldn’t smother his curiosity though, despite knowing his father would smother it for him when the time came. Forcefully if he had to. “All of the Chosen have to attend the Academy at fourteen. I know that you have the gift, your mom told mine when you first presented, and so I was confused when I didn’t see you on the roster for this year.”

“I’m sorry— what?” Syaoran being one of the Chosen was news to him. He was sure that Kara had to be wrong. She seemed to follow his line of thinking and she sighed, before pulling out a small blade. Syaoran tensed, his entire body ready to flee at the sight of the metal object. So far, she’d shown no open hostility besides some thinly veiled contempt for his father, but he knew how quickly the attitudes of others could change. Instead of using the knife to attack him, Kara pricked her finger.

When she pulled the knife away, a bead of blood dripped down the appendage before it was suddenly redirected, floating a few inches above the palm of her hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Syaoran could see his father tense, and he briefly wondered if the man would attack her.

“You can manipulate blood, can you not?” Once again, Syaoran found himself glancing towards his father, who’s piercing glare was now directed towards him. He quickly redirected his gaze down to his knees, knowing that if he continued to look at the other he’d be cowed into obedience. His father wouldn’t want him to acknowledge his freakishness to another person, especially someone he didn’t like. Still, Syaoran was ready to risk it if it meant he could go to the Academy.

“... Yes.” His voice was quiet, and he found it was hard to speak around the lump in his throat. He swallowed reflexively.

“And is it getting harder to control? Has it become stronger recently?”

“I don’t know, it’s not something I use often.” Kara scoffed as though he said something offensive and he glanced up, just in time to see her compress the blood into a small bullet and slip it into her pocket. He wondered what use she’d have with a bullet made of blood.

“That is something that will have to change. At the Academy, we train students to be able to fight the Specters by the time they graduate. That won’t happen if you never use your gift.” Syaoran almost wanted to snort. Gift. Yeah right, it was more of a curse than anything. Without it, he was pretty sure his father wouldn’t hate him as much, and his mother wouldn’t have died. It was no gift, it was a freaky abnormality that had no place in the world, just like him.

“You know about the other eight families, correct?” Eight? Syaoran had thought there were twelve. He voiced his thoughts aloud, and Kara smiled, although it looked bitter. “Yeah, there were twelve originally. The Specters have completely wiped out four of them though. Our family isn’t far behind, either.” Syaoran wasn’t sure how to react to that, so he carefully kept his face neutral. “It’s no matter, you’ll meet the other families when we get there. Now—“

“Just wait a minute, I never said I was going to send my son to this Academy,” his father finally spoke up. Syaoran knew he would, it had just been a matter of when. Kara frowned at his father again, and he wondered just what her problem was with him. It seemed as if the two had a history of some sort, although Syaoran couldn’t begin to guess what it was or what it would be about.

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. It’s a requirement, practically a law at this point.”

“Requirement my ass,” Syaoran winced, his father only cursed when he was getting truly annoyed. Syaoran hoped that Kara would stop before his father lost control and lashed out at one of them. His feet pulsed in pain, and suddenly Kara was looking at him, her face the picture of concern. Syaoran wondered what he did that made her look at him like that, as he’d been very careful to keep from showing his pain the entire conversation. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was the ability to carry on like everything was normal. “As long as I’m paying for it, I get to decide whether or not he’s going.” Kara smiled, though it looked vicious and threatening.

“That’s also where you’re wrong. Sir.” The added honorific sounded like an insult, and Syaoran only wished that he had the nerves to speak that way to his father. Then again, she probably didn't know everything that he was capable of. He’d speak like that to the man if he didn’t know either.

“For students that can’t pay for the tuition, they can attend on a scholarship of sorts.” It sounded like Kara was genuinely trying to get Syaoran into Praeditus. He allowed a small bit of hope to blossom in his chest. The prospect of getting away from his father was tempting, and one that he hadn’t been able to think of often because of the sheer hopelessness of things. Now though, it seemed as though it could actually happen. “He’ll have to maintain a 95 average, but he’ll still be able to attend.” Syaoran quickly calculated his past grades in his head, and knew that he’d be able to do it.

He once again began messing with the stray bits of thread at the bottom of his sweatshirt, chewing his lip in nervousness. He avoided looking at his father, knowing that if he did, he would give in and decide not to go after all. He could practically feel the anger radiating from the man, and he knew that if he didn’t leave with Kara, he’d probably never leave again.

“So Syaoran, what do you say? Ready to pack up and go?” Kara asked, turning and facing him. His answer was on the tip of his tongue, but suddenly, his father cleared his throat, and Syaoran’s face involuntarily landed on the man from the sudden noise.

“Just know, if you plan on leaving for that school, make sure you also plan on never coming back. You already know how I feel about that school and the “Chosen” ones,” his father emphasized the word with finger quotes and a roll of his eyes. “And I won’t tolerate that under my house. If you’re packing, pack for good,” his father said, but the glint in his eye was daring Syaoran to try getting up. He stayed rooted to his seat, and despite doing his best to keep his face blank, he knew he wasn’t hiding the fear in his eyes as well as he wanted to. He feared that they’d always give the emotions he tried to conceal most.

He knew that if he didn’t get out of the house soon, regardless of whether or not he was with Kara, he would end up like his mother. The familiar gleam in his father's eyes was back, and Syaoran tensed his entire body, ready to flee if his father even so much as moved. His father must’ve realized this, as there was a smirk on the corner of his lips, as though he knew he’d won. Syaoran wasn’t able to peel his gaze from his father, despite the fact that he spoke to Kara. “I’m sorry but—“

“Syaoran, you can lodge with me during the summers and holidays if you wish. If not, the academy has rooms for those who plan on staying the entire year. And even still, you have more family that’d be willing to take you in,” Kara said, her voice beginning to sound desperate. “You have other options.” Did he really though? Sure, Kara said that he had other family, but he’d either never met them before, or had been too young to remember them. He was a practical stranger in their eyes, and if he was already a burden to his own father, then he was sure to burden a family that he didn’t even know. He couldn’t just invade their space and privacy.

“Syaoran, look at me, not him.” It was with great hesitation that Syaoran peeled his gaze from his father and over to Kara. He still kept his defenses up, knowing just how fast his father could strike when he wanted to. By the looks of it, he was getting ready to. Kara looked serious, more serious than she’d looked the entire conversation, and the full intensity of her gaze was on him. He resisted the urge to squirm under said gaze, instead looking near her instead of directly at her. If she noticed his aversion to eye contact, she didn’t say anything about it, and for that he was grateful.

“Do you wish to go to this Academy?” She asked, and Syaoran could suddenly feel his father's piercing glare on the side of his head. He resisted the urge to listen to the man, to be cowed and do whatever he wanted in fear for his life. In fear of another beating worse than what he’d just endured. It had happened so many times already, and he knew he was missing out on a lot. He didn’t want that to happen this time, as this was likely the same Academy his mother went to. If he truly got the “gift” from his mother’s side of the family, then that meant she had to have had it too, right?

“... you said you knew my mom?” He could hear his father’s growl from several feet away. For his father, it was taboo to mention his mother, unless he was the one doing it. Syaoran thought it was unfair, but didn’t really care in the end, as he wouldn’t want to talk to his father about her to him of all people. Kara brightened at the question, before she smiled and nodded her head.

“She was my aunt, but I always thought of her as more of a sister, considering the fact that she was only eight years older than me.” There was a wistful and nostalgic smile on Kara’s face, and Syaoran found himself eager to learn more. There was only one way he’d be able to do that, and it wasn’t by staying with the man who killed her.

 **< <Take the chance, little one>>** Khutulun murmured, although by that point he hadn’t needed any more convincing. There was only one choice to take, and in his mind, it was obvious.

“Yes… I want to go,” he whispered, his voice so soft he didn’t know if he had been heard.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, Syaoran's father is a bastard, but good thing his cousin Kara is there to save the day! Once again, any comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
